


The Scientific Method

by teyla



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Biting, Bondage, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Punching, Top Newt, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 08:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10213892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: Percival used to joke that he needed at least one good beating per week to be as good at his job as he was. But ever since spending months in captivity, kinky encounters have become an ambiguous experience for him at best. Enter Newt, who's more than happy to carefully navigate them through a scene and give Percival what he needs. FOR SCIENCE.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neery/gifts).



> Thanks to Neery for the beta.
> 
> For reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, Percival is in London visiting Newt in this fic. (He's never met the man, after all! Maybe he just wanted to see what the guy who saved them all from Grindelwald looks like.)
> 
> I'm not a native in this fandom, but Neery and I were discussing how Newt would be _great_ at topping someone with triggers, so then this fic happened. I apologize in advance for any irregularities. Enjoy!

Newt’s apartment smells a lot like Newt himself does.

That sounds like an insult, which it’s not. Newt smells good. Newt smells like a Caledonian forest—fresh moss and supple bark and the oldest kinds of magic, and dear God, he sounds like a lovesick maiden. It’s not like he can change the fact that he’s always had an extremely keen sense of smell. Some men see a pair of breasts and forget themselves. With him, it’s a particular scent, and he loses all ability to focus.

He should mention, it’s _normally_ that Newt smells like nature. Right now, he smells like residual electrical charge from the barrage of spells he slammed out against Grindelwald's followers. That’s really what did it. That, and the gash across Newt’s chest, framed by tattered shirt ribbons and oozing bright red blood. Percival can’t claim to be proud that things like violence and injury have this, well, _invigorating_ effect on him, but there is no point denying it. When he saw Newt in such a state, his own judgment still shot from the excitement of the fight, he'd gone and kissed this strange, red-haired, skinny-but-not, eye contact-avoiding man whom he met all of a week ago.

He immediately got slammed into a wall. Apparently Newt’s reflexes were still on full throttle. Startled eyes stared at him for a moment before Newt said something about getting out of there before the aurors arrived. Next thing Percival knew, Newt had brought them to his apartment.

Which, as previously stated, smells exactly like Newt and is doing nothing to help Percival calm his excitement. He cringes at his own lack of self-control and tugs on his hand. Newt is still holding on to his wrist with a bone-crushing grip. The man’s so much _stronger_ than he looks.

“I am so sorry.” The grip disappears, and Percival discovers that’s actually not what he wants. “I—did I hurt you? I was a bit, uh, taken by surprise—“

“It’s fine.” Percival rubs a thumb over the reddened imprints of Newt’s fingers on his wrist. The sting sends a familiar twist of arousal through his body. “I don’t—“ He clears his throat. “I actually kind of—“

“You kissed me.”

Percival looks up to meet Newt’s stare, and now _he_ feels like the awkward one who doesn’t like locking eyes with people. He opens his mouth, closes it again. _Pull yourself together, Graves!_ “Yes. I did. I—that was—not appropriate. My apologies.”

“Was it not? Appropriate?”

What do you say to something like that? Percival’s eyes drop to Newt’s shirt collar, which is torn, exposing wiry shoulder muscles. “I—was it?”

Newt’s eyes go to Percival’s wrist, and sure enough, he’s still fingering the bruises Newt left there, sending sparks of excitement sizzling through his nervous system. _Goddamn you, Graves, why must you be so transparent?_ Newt doesn’t look repulsed, though. If anything, he looks really _curious_.

Percival is not at all prepared for what he does next.

Newt’s hand shoots out, grabs his wrist again, and _twists_. A searing pain in his shoulder leads Percival to ducking away sideways, and seconds later, he once again finds himself pressed up against a wall, this time with his cheek against the rough surface.

Newt’s right behind him, smelling of trees and woods and water, his breath tickling the back of Percival’s neck. “Please accept my apologies if I’ve misinterpreted.” All the while, he’s still holding Percival’s arm in an iron grip.

This is a terrible idea. A _terrible_ idea. “You haven’t. You’re, uh. You’re quite—spot-on.”

Newt presses in closer, soft voice right behind Percival’s ear. “You like this?”

Percival reminds himself to breathe. “Uh. Ah. Yes.”

“Curious.” Percival can feel a hand slide up the back of his head, dig into his hair, and gasps as fingers curl into a fist and send thrilling lances of pain through his scalp. “Do you enjoy the pain or the lack of mobility?”

“I, uh.” How does a man who has trouble raising his voice above a mumbled whisper ask questions like that as if he were inquiring about the Sunday church schedule? “Both? Both. I like—ah.” Newt has crowded in closer, putting more of a strain on Percival’s shoulder and making it even more difficult for him to move. He closes his eyes, swallows dry. His head is likely to explode any moment, and he’s really quite—excited. Physically. Put plainly, he’s hard. “Challenges. I like challenges.”

“Challenges.” It’s like Newt is filing it all away in some giant ledger in his head—A Compendium of Magical Creatures of the Americas, Chapter 4: Percival Graves. “I think we should relocate.”

The weight behind him disappears. His arm untwists, his shoulder protests as he rotates it back into its accustomed position. He reaches up, rubs at the aching joint, and is halfway through turning around when Newt prods him in the back with his wand.

The world suddenly drops away.

It’s what it felt like the first time this happened; it’s what it always feels like. By now, he’s learned that he has to breathe through it, has to rely on the sensations of the real world to anchor him until things have settled. They always do within seconds. If he’s lucky, he emerges from those seconds without having punched someone in the face.

He’s not lucky this time.

“Oh, _shit_!” His fingers open and close, displaced tension as he wants to reach out for Newt but doesn’t. “ _Dammit_ , I’m so sorry!”

Newt peers at him over the hand he’s clamped over his nose. Blood is trickling out from under his palm. “Was it something I did?” He sounds clogged-up and nasal.

“No!” Percival raises his hands again, looks at Newt’s wand which he’s still holding out, and takes an involuntary step backwards. “Y-Yes. Maybe. I—God, I’m so sorry. This is a terrible idea.”

“My wand scares you.” It’s not a question so much as a statement. Newt steps over to a side table, puts the wand down and holds up his empty hand. “Better?”

Percival nods. His chest starts to slowly unclench. “I’m sorry. I had some—um. Some bad experiences. Recently.”

Newt’s head tips to the side. “Your imprisonment. You were threatened.”

Again, what do you say to that? Percival shifts his eyes away, but Newt doesn’t seem to require an answer. He just takes a step away from the side table, making a point of the distance between himself and his wand. “Would you like to abort this experiment?”

“Experiment?” Newt looks at him like there’s nothing odd about his choice of words. But damn, the man has fascinating eyes. In all his life, Percival hasn’t seen a pair of eyes this intense.

Maybe it _is_ an experiment. Before—everything, before the damp, dark cellar Grindelwald kept him in for months, deprived of sensory input, sleep, food, and all other essential things in life, Percival had enjoyed encounters like this with some regularity. He used to joke (in the privacy of his head; it’s not like he has an abundancy of friends to tell jokes to) that he needed at least one good beating per week to be as good at his job as he was. It was challenging, fun, taxing, exhilarating.

It’s not anymore. He tried going to his usual place once after he got sent home from the infirmary, and it was a disaster. Too many things that startled him, frightened him, made him curl into a ball like a pill bug until his body came around to realizing that nothing was, in fact, trying to hurt him in ways he didn’t want. He decided he was going to have to find something else to guarantee he stayed good at his job, and never went back.

That was five months ago. So far, he hasn’t found it. He’s not as good at his job anymore, either. Maybe it’s time to experiment a little. He seems to have found the only person in the world who might be willing to do that with him.

He clears his throat, pushes off the wall. Newt is watching him attentively, and he holds out his palms with a small, hopefully conciliatory smile. “I would continue. There are some things I—“ He clears his throat. This is hard to admit. “There are some things I can’t do. Some of it I may only find out along the way.”

Newt nods. His nose has stopped bleeding, two tracks of dried blood clinging to his upper lip. The tip of his tongue comes out, dabs at the red streaks. Percival reaches for his wand, seeking permission with a raise of his eyebrows before he casts a quick healing spell.

Newt smiles in thanks, his voice back to normal as he speaks. “Is the wand itself a problem, or did you just not like being touched with it?”

“I, ah. I’d rather the wand stay out of it.”

Another nod, and Newt gestures at him to follow. “This way.”

He leads him down a corridor to what Percival first thinks must be the bedroom, but what turns out to be more of an indoors greenhouse. It’s like a jungle, the entire room covered in plants and leaves and lianas, foliage crawling up the wall and hiding the entire ceiling. It’d be pitch-black dark in here if not for one plant that covers the back wall whose leaves shine in a bright white light, occasionally broken by a prism of other colors.

It’s beautiful. And it smells heavenly.

“Bit of a pet project of mine,” Newt says, and it sounds of all things like he’s apologizing for having a magical forest in his apartment. “The _Habitum Anamorphiosum_ doesn’t thrive in magically enhanced spaces, so I had to put her up out here.”

“The what?”

“Oh, she’s around here somewhere. But she’s harmless.” Newt blinks as if something just occurred to him. “You won’t mind, will you?”

The idea of a magical creature sitting between the leaves and watching what they’re about to do doesn’t sound like the most appealing idea to Percival. But it’s Newt’s place, and if Newt says the animal isn’t dangerous, he’ll try to give a little and trust him. “Uh, no. It’s fine.”

“Good.”

Newt points, and Percival gets the air knocked out of him as he’s slammed against a wall for the third time today. The impact against his back is softer this time, cushioned by a thick layer of plants. Newt flicks his fingers and Percival’s arms stretch out at his side with no incentive of his own. Bendy, supple branches sneak around his wrists and ankles. Within seconds, he’s tethered to the wall.

His heart is hammering away in his throat. He takes a few deep breaths, arousal battling panic in his chest. This is a _horrible_ idea; probably the last thing he’d be doing if he were an in any way sensible man. But Newt is right there, stepping up to him with curious concern in his eyes, reaching out to cup his cheek with long-fingered hands, and despite the panic, the last thing Percival wants to do is put a stop to this.

“Is this all right?”

Percival nods, swallows. “Ropes—uh.” He clears his throat. “Ropes aren’t always good, but this is fine. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

 _God_. “It’s a little terrifying but—good terrifying?” _Exceedingly eloquent, Graves. These rhetoric skills will take you far, one day._

Newt smiles. He seems genuinely _pleased_ , like he followed a scientific hunch and it paid off. Which is probably not far off. “Good. Let’s get rid of these.”

He curls his hand in front of Percival’s chest and pulls down. Percival’s clothes glide right off of him, fabric sliding over skin and landing heaped in a corner. The air in the room is warm, moist, immediately enveloping Percival’s suddenly exposed skin. He can’t help but arch against the wall. “ _Newt_. You’re really good with wandless magic.”

“Occupational necessity. You can never know when a creature will deny you permission to pull out your wand.” The slight smile on his lips seems much too knowing for such a shy man. Maybe he’s not actually all that shy.

Percival nods. “Same with criminals.”

Newt’s hands land on his exposed stomach, and it takes the physical touch to bring it home to Percival that he’s naked, hard, and tied to a wall by a plant belonging to someone who set an entire suitcase of illegal magical creatures loose on New York City. He squirms as Newt’s calloused palms explore his torso and ribcage. _Too skinny_ , he thinks. He’s been working to regain muscle mass, but that kind of thing takes time. Newt doesn’t seem to mind.

“Do you prefer sharp or dull pain?” Fingers curl against his ribs; nails dig into his skin. He grunts.

“Uhm. I—“ He’s been doing this for years, but nobody ever just straight-up asked him that. “Dull. I like—punching.”

He’s barely finished when a fist lands in his solar plexus. He doubles up as far as the tethers on his wrists allow. Spots dance in front of his eyes, and he gasps as his balance takes a momentary leave of absence. For a few seconds, it feels like he’s tied to a spinning disc, centrifugal power pulling on his limbs. Then the room settles again. “Ahrgh,” he says. He’s pretty sure he’s grinning.

Newt’s voice comes in from a distance. “Curious.”

Pain explodes in his side when he’s elbowed in the ribs. His shoulder protests the strain as his body is pushed too far to the side. He allows himself to sag down, worsening the pull on his joints. Newt follows up with a blow to his other side, and Percival is left gasping for air, the room teetering and tilting in the blurry focal point of his tunnel vision.

A hand props up his chin, and cool lips meet his own as Newt presses against his mouth in a gentle kiss. Percival surges forward, drawing out Newt’s tongue which is warm and heavy. He sucks on it, desperate for more, and feels a ping of gratification as Newt makes a surprised little moan.

“They say I’m the best kisser this side of the Mississippi,” Percival slurs, not even caring that he sounds like he’s drunk.

“Do they? Hm.” Palms slide over his chest, finding a forming bruise and pressing down. Percival gasps and arches into the feeling. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s true. Not that my experience is all that extensive.”

“Why—“ Oh God. Speaking is hard when pain signals are trying to blot out anything else in your brain. His word degenerates into a moan and then a yelp as Newt pinches his side. “ _Ow_!” He laughs. “Shit. Why not?”

Newt is looking at him with those eyes, and with Percival’s vision compromised to a narrow tunnel, his stare seems even more intent. There’s something in it now that goes beyond scientific interest. He also smells different. Muskier. Percival is pretty sure that Newt is enjoying this as much as he is. The realization is like another punch to his ribs, heady and exquisite and absolutely worth another moan.

“Most people don’t seem particularly interested.” Newt is talking, and Percival thinks he’s saying that everybody _doesn’t_ chase Newt down the street as if he were a young lady in nothing but her underskirts. Well, that’s just ridiculous.

“That’s ridiculous,” he reiterates, breathing deep to press his aching ribcage against Newt’s palm which is still firmly lodged against a sore spot on his chest. “You’re interesting as hell.”

“I’m glad to hear you think so.” Newt’s voice is quiet, but he sounds pleased as punch, and Percival laughs again, shoulders protesting as he arches his back.

“Me, too,” he says, not caring that he’s not making a lot of sense.

His oversensitive nerve endings trail the progress of Newt’s palm sliding up his chest, then ping on another sensation as Newt’s other hand settles on the ridge of his hipbone. Up and down those hands go, one sending tiny sparks of sensation through Percival’s abdomen as long fingers snag on pubic hair. The other one starts to wrap around Percival’s throat, and _that_ sensation makes him shudder, currents of ice suddenly dripping down his spine.

“Ah,” he says, and Newt’s movements still immediately.

“Would you like me to remove either of my hands?”

“Top.” Memories encroach unbidden, white teeth in a grinning face as Percival’s vision narrows down to a pinpoint. “Oh God, yes, top, please—“

Newt’s hand slides around to the back of his neck, a supportive grip with a thumb settling behind his ear. Newt’s body is suddenly very close, exuding warmth the way Grindelwald’s never did. The fabric of Newt’s shirt tickles Percival’s chest, and the palm on his lower abdomen slides up to rest against his side, firm and warm and grounding. Newt’s scent fills Percival’s nose, and warm breath brushes against his ear as Newt’s voice sounds, soothing and quiet. “My apologies, Percival. Are you all right to continue, or would you like to stop?”

“Con—“ His voice snags as another shudder wracks his body, and he draws in a breath, throat impossibly tight. “Shit, shit. I’m sorry, I don’t want to stop—“

Newt shushes him. He’s Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head of MACUSA’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He doesn’t get shushed. And yet, that’s exactly what’s happening. Newt pulls him in even closer, thumb incessantly stroking behind his ear, and shushes the panic right out of his shaking body.

“You’re doing very well, Percival. We won’t stop, there’s no need to be frightened.”

“’m not frightened.” His voice is muffled because he’s tucked his face into Newt’s shoulder, but he thinks he maybe manages to give it an edge anyway.

Newt nods. “Of course not.”

Exactly. Of course not. He doesn’t raise his head, and Newt doesn’t move except for that stroking thumb. Gradually, the tightness in Percival’s chest abates. The tethers around his wrists and ankles stop feeling like traps and go back to feeling like they’re holding him up, keeping him on track. Newt’s heady forest scent fills Percival’s head, and he smiles, nibbles a little on the exposed skin on the side of Newt’s neck.

Newt gives a little giggle, and it’s the most endearing thing Percival’s heard in his entire life.

“I don’t think you’re real,” he says, smiling into the strands of red hair that are bunched against the side of Newt’s neck. “You’re a siren or something. Luring me in with everything I want to steal everything I own.”

Newt’s body stiffens in a way that suggests offense taken. “That is not what sirens do, Percival. They’re actually very—“

“Tell me later?”

Newt harrumphs, and sinks his teeth into Percival’s shoulder.

It’s a smarting pain, sharp and violent, more difficult to process than the almost comforting thud of a punch. Percival twists away, and Newt holds on and follows him. “Newt. _Newt_ , that’s—“ A gasping laugh escapes him, and then a yelp as Newt’s hand slides down to grab his dick. “Oh!”

The stimulation spreads from his crotch up his spine into his brain and fingertips and softens the edge of the bite into an exquisite cacophony of feelings. He can hear himself moan, a keening edge to it as he arches his hips into Newt’s hand. His knees are trembling, threatening to buckle and put his weight entirely on his aching shoulders.

“Oh my God,” he moans, laughing again as his head falls back against the wall. “Oh my God, Newt, you’re a wizard.”

Newt letting go of the bite hurts almost as much as him clenching his teeth did. “Yes,” he says. “I am.”

Newt’s hand gets to work, sliding up and down and flicking the head and coating the sensitive skin in slick, warm pre-come. The bite mark on Percival’s shoulder keeps firing pain signals, and it takes a while for him to realize that this is because Newt has dug a thumb into the already bruising skin. His breath is tearing in and out of his lungs, and he can’t help but make a variety of noises, none of which sound even remotely like his usual calm and collected self.

“Newt,” he gasps, tongue sliding over his lower lip. “Newt, just—kiss me—“

Lips meet his own, assertive and commanding. Teeth graze his lip, and the sharp twinge of Newt sucking on the cut is what sends him over the edge. His body convulses, shoulders lamenting as his knees finally do buckle. The pain is alleviated when Newt’s body pushes against his chest and takes some of his weight. It’s a while before his body stops shaking, but even then, standing on his own two feet seems a nearly impossible task.

“Newt,” he mumbles. Everything aches and tingles. The feeling makes him smile. “You’re amazing.”

“Yes,” comes Newt’s voice, distracted. “I’m going to undo your tethers, please try to avoid falling over.”

It’s a challenge, but Percival just so manages. He slides down the wall to sit on the floor, grinning up at Newt who’s crouching in front of him. There’s a smile on Newt’s face, and his eyes are as warm as they are curious. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I feel amazing.” Percival sticks out his tongue to explore a tender spot on his upper lip. “You’re really good at this.”

“Glad to hear it.” Newt’s smile widens a tiny bit. “Do you feel up to getting dressed?”

“Ah.” Right. He’s buck naked. “Do you—I mean—is there something, um. Something I can do for you?”

“I’m afraid my excitement got there before you.”

Percival drops his eyes to Newt’s crotch, which is wet. “Wow.” He grins. “I made you come in your pants. Go me.”

“Well, you turned into a bit of a blithering idiot, so I think we’re even.” Something about Percival’s reaction must have alarmed Newt, because his eyes widen. “That—that wasn’t meant as an insult, I—“

“No, that’s—“ Percival laughs, his own blush making his ears burn hot. “That’s probably an apt description of what I’m like when I’m, well. _Excited_.”

“It’s not a bad thing.” Newt’s intense stare is on him again. “I found it quite—that is to say—“

Newt trails off, stuck in the middle of the sentence as it happens to him so often, and Percival nods. “I know. Me too.”

He holds Newt’s eyes for a split-second longer before it becomes too much and he looks around for his clothes. “I should make myself decent. Maybe we could—“ Get a drink? It’s the middle of the day. Coffee? No, wait, he’s in England. “—have a cup of tea?”

“Yes.” Newt gratefully latches on to the suggestion. He gets to his feet and hands Percival a stray shoe that landed off to the side from the rest of his clothes. “I prefer coffee, but I do have a selection of herbal teas. The kitchen is just—“ He points at the corridor and angles his hand to the left, and Percival nods.

“Right. Yes. Be right there.”

Newt bustles off. Percival puts his clothes back on, layer by layer restoring his looks and composure. They’re much more easily stripped away these days. Up until now, that felt like the worst thing to come out of his ordeal with Grindelwald.

Now he’s thinking that just maybe, there’s a silver lining.


End file.
